Portrait of a Disciplinarian

by Aishling Morgan

  ‘Naughty, naughty, Stephanie!’ Hermione chided, her voice full of laughter as she applied her hand to her sister’s bottom. ‘What a bad girl, to have to be put over her own sister’s knee! What a bad, bad girl!’

  Stephanie’s scowl intensified, but she held her peace, knowing that anything she said would only make it worse; but then the spanking stopped and her sister’s hand settled gently on her bottom, feeling the hot skin.

  ‘Ooh, you’re all warm and rosy!’ Hermione said, laughing. ‘I wish I had some of that nappy cream Vera uses on you, I’d rub it –’

  ‘How do you know about that?’ Stephanie demanded.

  ‘I watched you yesterday afternoon,’ Hermione admitted happily as she went back to spanking Stephanie’s bottom. ‘I thought you were up to no good, and it’s easy to climb from my balcony on to yours. But aren’t you two naughty? You really do deserve this, Stiffy, don’t you? Come on, stick it up, I want to see your bottom hole.’

  ‘Hermione!’ Stephanie gasped.

  ‘I only want to see if I can make it open and close, the way it does when the aunts do you,’ Hermione giggled. ‘Come on, stick it up. Let me see.’

  ‘I will not!’ Stephanie answered in outrage.

  ‘Stick … your … bottom … up …’ Hermione demanded, punctuating each word with a hard smack to her sister’s bottom. ‘I … want … to … see … your … bottom … hole … Come on, Stiffy. You let Vera … and she put her finger in … and a daffodil.’

  Hermione had changed the rhythm of her spanking, peppering Stephanie’s bottom with little stinging smacks of her fingertips each time she spoke. Stephanie began to struggle again, her mouth set in a hard, obstinate line, the tears welling up in her eyes as she fought to stop herself. But Hermione tightened her grip once more and spanked all the harder.

  ‘I’ll use my hairbrush, Stiffy!’ Hermione threatened.

  ‘Pig!’ Stephanie wailed, her resolve not to make it any worse for herself finally breaking.

  ‘A pig, am I?’ Hermione. ‘Right.’

  The spanking stopped, and Stephanie felt her sister’s body shift beneath her. She gave a frantic lurch, but Hermione clung on while digging in her bag and a moment later something smooth, hard, cold, and infinitely more painful than her sister’s hand landed across Stephanie’s bottom. A piercing screech rang out across the empty field as the smack hit home, and a second as Stephanie began to kick and wriggle once more.

  ‘Just stick up that bottom and it will stop,’ Hermione promised, using a tone of voice so infuriatingly superior that Stephanie lost the last of her self-control.

  A second later she was beating her fists on the ground and her sister’s legs, kicking wildly in the air and bawling her head off as she went into a spanking tantrum.

  ‘You don’t fool me,’ Hermione said, spanking all the harder. ‘Remember, I know all the tricks. Now stick your bottom up!’

  Something inside Stephanie seemed to snap and she did it, stuck her bottom high to let her cheeks spread and show off the rude little hole her sister wanted to see, the ring already pulsing in her pain. Hermione gave a peal of laughter, but the spanking had stopped. Stephanie kept her bottom high, the tears streaming down her cheeks and her mouth working furiously as her anus was inspected by her giggling sister.

  ‘All right, you’re done,’ Hermione finally announced, ‘but don’t you ever try to spank me again.’

  ‘I won’t … I promise,’ Stephanie sobbed. ‘Just let me up, please.’

  ‘One more thing, just to be sure you don’t forget,’ Hermione said.

  Stephanie twisted around as her sister’s voice gave way to a curious sucking noise. Hermione had the handle of the hairbrush in her mouth, and Stephanie immediately began to struggle again, because she knew exactly where it was going.

  ‘Oh, no, you don’t!’ Hermione said firmly. ‘I have a long memory, Stiffy, and at least you’re not going to get caught by Great-aunt Victoria while the brush is up your bottom.’

  As she spoke she pushed the handle of the hairbrush between Stephanie’s bottom cheeks. Stephanie was struggling furiously, but the spit-wet tip of the handle was already in the mouth of her bottom hole, and her cries and pleas changed to a gasp of shock as she was penetrated. Hermione pushed the handle in deep, giggling as Stephanie’s ring squeezed the bumpy silver shaft.

  ‘Now, what was it Myrtle Finch-Farmiloe used to do?’ she said in mock forgetfulness. ‘Oh yes …’

  ‘No!’ Stephanie squealed, but instead of the next expected humiliation being inflicted on her bottom she found herself being tumbled to the ground.

  ‘Quick, get up!’ Hermione urged. ‘Somebody’s coming!’

  Stephanie had landed on the hairbrush, and it took her a moment to rearrange her senses before she scrambled hastily to her feet. She tugged her dress down to cover her bottom, but there was no time to remove the hairbrush from her anus, let alone close her union suit. A curious procession was approaching across the field beyond the stile at a brisk march, a double column of young men, all identically clad in khaki shirts, baggy shorts of an indeterminate brown, knee-length khaki socks, wide-brimmed hats and heavy boots. As the group drew closer Stephanie realised that several of them were girls. She had already recognised the man at the front as Claude Attwater.

  Only the low wall had saved her from being seen, and she threw Hermione a dirty look before hurriedly composing herself. Her hat had fallen off during their first struggle and she retrieved it, hoping that Claude Attwater and the others would assume that was why she had popped up, as if out of nowhere. He had recognised them anyway, and raised his own hat.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Attwater,’ Stephanie and Hermione said, almost in chorus.

  ‘Column, halt!’ Attwater commanded, raising a hand.

  The group came smartly to attention, spoilt somewhat by the last boy in the left-hand column, who had not being paying attention and had walked into the girl in front of him.

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Stephanie, Miss Hermione,’ Attwater responded. ‘Out for a healthy walk, I see? Nothing like fresh air for building the constitution, and exercise is everything. Exercise and discipline, those are the maxims we live by in the Brown Shorts, and you, of course, could never be accused of going short of discipline.’

  A distinct smirk crossed his face as he spoke, and Stephanie found herself blushing, wondering if he’d somehow seen or worked out what had been going on, although it seemed more likely that he was referring to the spanking she’d had from her Aunt Lettice.

  ‘These are your famous Brown Shorts, then?’ she enquired carefully.

  ‘They are indeed,’ he answered with pride. ‘What you see here, Miss Stephanie, is the nucleus of a great movement. You should join us. It is a fine life, with stimulation for both mind and body, and rest assured, we are the future for this country, the heralds of a new dawn. Here is a pamphlet on the subject.’

  He held out a brightly coloured object, the front of which showed a drawing of himself smiling in a fashion that made him look more fatuous than ever. Stephanie took it, wondering how to decline his invitation with sufficient tact to ensure that the long-term result wasn’t a spanking from her Aunt Gertrude. Hermione gave a gentle tug on her arm while Stephanie wondered whether it was better to claim to be a communist or feign an allergy to ant bites.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she ventured instead, and allowed herself to be drawn aside.

  ‘We should join,’ Hermione whispered.

  ‘Join?’ Stephanie retorted. ‘Don’t be a loony!’

  ‘No, don’t you see?’ Hermione insisted. ‘If we join his beastly organisation we get uniforms, which are ever so much better than dresses when it comes to sneaking around after dark, while if we are seen but manage to make a run for it, everything will be blamed on the Brown Shorts.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Stephanie admitted, ‘but if we’re Brown Shorts too …’

  ‘We must have an alibi,’ Hermione responded.

  ‘For the m
iddle of the night?’

  ‘I’ll think of something.’

  ‘I’m not sure …’

  ‘Mr Attwater,’ Hermione announced loudly, not waiting for Stephanie to finish. ‘We are prepared to give your organisation a trial. How do we sign up?’

  ‘Excellent!’ he responded. ‘And a wise choice. There is a small ceremony, when you receive your uniforms, but for the present we plan to march to the top of Hare Tor and back to my house in Sourton. You should come along.’

  Stephanie sat down rather gingerly as a faint pop announced the withdrawal of the cork from the lunch-time bottle of Chablis. It had been a long while since her spanking, and her cheeks had recovered, but the long march across Dartmoor with her sister’s hairbrush stuck up her bottom had left her anus so sore than even the liberal application of Wilberforce’s patent ‘Sootho’ had failed to stop the stinging. It had only added to the sensation of having to keep her cheeks clenched in order to prevent an accident that could easily compete for a spot in her top three most embarrassing moments.

  ‘Trout?’ Sir Richard Truscott queried, sniffing the air.

  ‘With nut butter and new potatoes, Sir Richard, sir,’ Mrs Catchpole confirmed, ‘and there’s a nice carrot and herb pie for them as is fussy little madams.’

  Aunt Lettice stiffened, and Stephanie was forced to stifle a giggle. Mrs Catchpole took no notice of either, but began to serve.

  ‘Plenty of sauce, Lucy,’ Sir Richard instructed as Mrs Catchpole began to serve. ‘Splendid, splendid, nothing like a stiff gallop to work up an appetite, eh? But what’s this Gertie tells me about you joining the Brown Shorts, Stiffy? And you too, H.? I thought you both had more sense.’

  ‘It will do them both a power of good,’ Gertrude put in.

  ‘You always say we should experience different facets of life, Grandpapa,’ Hermione answered him.

  ‘Traipsing across the moor dressed up like a boy?’ he queried. ‘Well, it’s up to you, and I dare say you’ll soon grow out of it.’

  He addressed himself to the trout, as did the others, leaving a silence broken only by the sounds of determined mastication and a faint plop as Mrs Catchpole manoeuvred a slab of orange and green substance on to Aunt Lettice’s plate.

  ‘The Emperor weighed in at ninety-five exactly this morning,’ Sir Richard remarked after a while, ‘but Drake’s beast is well over the hundred, damn him. Would you like to walk down to the sty with me after lunch, girls? Or would a drive be more to your taste? We might go to Launceston.’

  ‘Hermione is practising piano with the Reverend Porthwell,’ Victoria Truscott pointed out, ‘and if you are going out in the car, you might give me a lift. Lord Salisbury is not at all well.’

  ‘I’m not having your damn dog being ill all over my upholstery,’ Sir Richard answered. ‘Why can’t the veterinarian come here?’

  Stephanie was no longer listening, but had gone into a daydream in which Mrs Catchpole had lost all touch with reality and spanked Aunt Lettice for not eating her trout. Just possibly, she considered, it might be worth dropping a hint and seeing what happened. After all, Lucy Catchpole had been with the family for over forty years, and nothing would induce Sir Richard to sack her. There was a faint smile on her face as she imagined Lettice’s slender buttocks exposed for spanking, and she let her mind dwell on the delicious fantasy as lunch continued.

  Afterwards, she followed Hermione out on to the terrace, hoping for a proper reconciliation after the morning’s spanking, which they hadn’t had a chance to discuss, and a restoration of what she felt to be the proper order of things. It was only right and proper that she should be spanked by her mother, and perhaps occasionally by her grandmother. Great-aunt Victoria she could accept as an unavoidable disaster, like a volcano or typhoon, which in turn made the lesser aunts lesser disasters. Being done by Vera Clapshott really was a bit much, but there were compensations involving the application of Sootho. Even the thought of getting it from Myrtle Finch-Farmiloe made her want to grind her teeth, and yet she had never been able to rid herself entirely of the feeling that it was appropriate. Hermione was another matter.

  Big sisters spanked little sisters, not the other way around. That was the natural order of things, and she burned with resentment at Hermione’s behaviour. What Hermione needed was a long talking to, an even longer spanking and a cuddle to make her better, preferably in immediate succession. Unfortunately, one look at the sulky expression on Hermione’s face as she stood picking the petals from a luckless primrose made Stephanie realise that it was a subject to approach with care. First she would have to make Hermione see the error of her ways, and meanwhile there was something else she wanted to know.

  ‘What’s this about you cramming with Porker?’ she asked as she came up beside her sister.

  ‘I failed my music exam,’ Hermione complained, ‘and Great-aunt Victoria says I have to do it again, which is completely silly, because I hate piano, and I have no intention of playing, ever, and I don’t like Porker Porthwell at all.’

  ‘He is a bit of a beast,’ Stephanie agreed, ‘but think how much money we’ll be able to clean him out of. You can leak the Emperor’s weight, as well, while you’re there.’

  Hermione managed a weak smile and carefully removed the final petal from the primrose, letting it flutter to the ground. Stephanie waited a moment, then spoke again.

  ‘You were a bit of a beast too, spanking me like that.’

  ‘You were going to spank me,’ Hermione pointed out, ‘and you needn’t pretend you wouldn’t have got me bare, or teased me, or been rude with me.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have stuck a hairbrush up your bottom!’ Stephanie protested.

  ‘You might,’ Hermione said. ‘You did that time Great-aunt Victoria caught us.’

  Stephanie winced and took an instinctive glance back across her shoulder.

  ‘That’s as maybe,’ she admitted, ‘but it’s not the same, is it?’

  ‘Why not?’ Hermione demanded.

  ‘I’m older than you,’ Stephanie pointed out.

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So … so you shouldn’t spank me!’ Stephanie was outraged that Hermione could possibly fail to comprehend such a basic fact. ‘Do I go round spanking the aunts, or Mama?’

  Hermione shrugged.

  ‘Well, then,’ Stephanie went on. ‘I think it’s only fair that you come up to my room later and I give you a jolly good spanking, and a nice cuddle afterwards to make you better. I don’t want to quarrel.’

  ‘Then don’t spank me,’ Hermione told her. ‘And if you try, you’ll be the one who gets it, Stiffy. But I’ll give you a cuddle.’

  Stephanie made a face. It was a hard offer to refuse, and yet she was determined to get back on top. Obviously she had been in London too long and lost the authority she had always enjoyed over her sister, but she was sure that once she had Hermione’s bottom nice and hot she could reassert herself. It was just a question of finding the opportunity.

  ‘All right,’ she said, and held her arms open.

  They came together, holding on to one another for a long moment before breaking apart with a gentle kiss. Inside the house, the grandfather clock in the drawing room chimed the half-hour.

  ‘I’d better go,’ Hermione said. ‘I’ll see you this evening.’

  Stephanie watched her sister walk from the terrace with considerable irritation and no less curiosity. Hermione usually accepted such unpleasant things as piano lessons with at least moderate good grace, but today she seemed unusually sulky. Something was going on, just possibly something to do with Hermione’s mysterious new philosophy about nudity, which was both intriguing and worrying. Strolling indoors as if in no great hurry, she sat down where she could watch the drive and pretended to read.

  Hermione soon appeared, dressed in a pink frock, which was unusual for her, and looking more agitated than ever. She set off up the drive. Stephanie finished the story she was reading, then followed. Hermione did not take the Bridestowe Ro
ad but made for Bidlake, then turned north along the main road and across a field to the rear of the rectory. The faint tinkling of a badly played piano was audible as Stephanie stole into the rectory garden by the back gate and took up a position behind the screen of a yew hedge.

  The music stopped but, having had to suffer in just the same way, although with a different tutor, Stephanie knew exactly where Hermione would be: in the music room at one end of the building, seated at the piano with her back to the main window. The ancient wisteria that cloaked much of the rear of the rectory allowed her to peer through the panes with little chance of being observed. Inside, her sister was indeed sitting at the piano, her face set in a stubborn scowl. Standing beside her was the Reverend Benjamin Porthwell, curate to Bridestowe Parish, with his cassock raised to reveal well polished black boots, dark socks held up by suspenders, plump, hairy legs unencumbered by underwear, and an erect penis.

  Although it was only the third male organ Stephanie had set eyes on, she was fairly sure it was not a typical specimen. Freddie Drake’s was handsome and virile. Lias Snell’s was ugly, but still virile. Porker Porthwell’s was grotesque, not at all virile, and oddly in contrast with his globular body. It was long and thin, with a small bright-red helmet and a skinny shaft, stretched so taut that thin purple veins could be seen. All of that would have been bad enough, but it paled into insignificance beside the fact that the organ was so severely twisted that the helmet almost faced backwards. Beneath it depended a pair of monstrous testicles, the outline of each clearly visible within a pink and almost completely hairless scrotum: altogether a peculiarly unpleasant set of male equipment.

  The window was open, and his voice carried clearly to Stephanie as he spoke, high and piping, full of barely suppressed excitement.

  ‘We agreed, didn’t we, Miss Hermione. If you get it wrong you have to touch. Now take hold and pull up and down a little.’

  Hermione made no move to comply, her sulky scowl only growing more intense. The curate hitched his cassock up a little higher, exposing a segment of rounded belly the colour and texture of lard. Hermione reached out, very gingerly, to tap his erection with a single, sudden motion. He wagged one plump finger at her, his voice firm and yet also wheedling as he spoke.